The Stories We Lock Away, and the Ones We Carry

I would much rather sign up for a gruelling marathon—where I would probably collapse before covering even a quarter of the distance—than strike up a conversation with a stranger. But in this moment, I had no choice.

After a heavy Seljački ručak at Stari Fijaker, I paused to assess the persistent ache in my leg. It didn’t seem serious, so I decided to explore the city a little more before finally allowing myself the rest I hadn’t had in nearly twenty hours.

I walked along the Strossmayer Promenade and soon noticed a small crowd gathered, all taking photos of something. It wasn’t a place I had marked on my map—it was something I had simply stumbled upon.

Curious, I edged closer and peered between shoulders and elbows.

Locks?

Dozens of them, secured tightly to the railings.

On closer inspection, I noticed inscriptions in black marker—initials, names, small hearts. Some were carefully written, others hurried, almost fading.

It was the well-known “Love Rails.” Not something I would have actively sought out, and that too, a romantic landmark. No.. No.. No.. No No.. But there it was.

But as I walked away, I couldn’t help but think about the stories locked into those pieces of metal. Some of those stories must have been happy. Some, perhaps, had already ended. Some of the people who placed those locks might still be together. Some might not even be alive anymore.

The stories remained. The people moved on.

I found myself drifting into that thought, almost too deeply, barely noticing the vibrant Dolac Market nearby, where farmers were selling fresh produce.

I needed to pull myself out of it. And soon.

That’s when I heard music.

Faint at first, then clearer as I followed it. Another Kolo performance was underway. This time it was at the European Square. The rhythm, the voices, the energy—it was exactly the distraction I needed.

I stood there, slowly letting go of the weight of those imagined stories, and picked up a pumpkin strudel from a nearby stall while the performance continued.

Back home, pumpkin only ever existed in one form—my mother’s curry. But strudel was my first time.

I had never imagined pumpkin could taste like this— yummy.

“Mom, you've got to level up now,” I thought.

As I sat there eating the strudel, my heart suddenly ached for home.

Soon, a girl came and sat beside me and started talking on the phone.

I had finished eating, but for some reason, I stayed.

Waited.

About ten minutes later, she ended the call and sat quietly.

I would still rather run that marathon. But this time, I spoke.

The entire time, she had been speaking in Nepali—my mother tongue. I had unintentionally followed the entire conversation.

The odds of this moment felt unreal.

Me—someone from India, living in Ireland, travelling in Croatia—sitting next to someone speaking Nepali.

I turned to her curiously and asked, “Nepali ho?”

The surprise on her face was immediate. A mix of shock, delight, and a little embarrassment, perhaps thinking about what she had just shared over the phone.

But there was no judgment from my side. None at all.

Only respect.

She was here, far from home, trying to build a better life. The conversation I had overheard was not easy—there were responsibilities waiting back home, expectations, and financial pressures. She was reassuring someone that she would send money soon, that everything would be fine.

But beneath those words, I could hear the weight she was carrying.

As we spoke, that weight became clearer. The struggles she had faced, and the ones she was still navigating. And yet, she kept going.

She found it hard to understand that I had come here on holiday. That I could take time off.

In her situation, even if leave existed, it wasn’t something she could afford to take.

I didn’t have much to offer in that moment.

Just a familiar line I find myself saying in such situations— “Don’t worry, everything will be fine.”

And as I walked away later, I found myself thinking again of those locks.

Each one held a story. Some were written with hope. Some perhaps holding on to something already lost.

And then this conversation—another story, still unfolding, still being carried forward with effort and resilience.

It made me realise something uncomfortable, yet important.

Some people travel to collect memories.

Others are far from home, carrying responsibilities that don’t pause.

And sometimes, both those worlds meet… on a bench in a city you didn’t plan for.